The Prisoner (23 page)

Suddenly she was gasping for air, tiny, desperate sips of breath that could not fill her bursting lungs, for everything was strained and tight and reaching for more, and Haydon's tongue licked in rapid little strokes at her liquefying flesh while his finger drove deep inside her. And then she was bursting into a shower of stars, which rippled over her in hard, breathless waves. She cried out, a desperate cry of joy and wonder, and as the ripples eased, she clawed at Haydon's shoulders, pulling him up until his powerful body was covering her with naked, hard heat.

Haydon fought for control as he felt his manhood pressing against Genevieve's exquisite wetness. He wanted to plunge deep inside her and take her fast, to slake the unbearable lust that was surely going to kill him if he did not sate it immediately. She was a virgin, he reminded himself fiercely, and she required gentle care. And so he claimed her mouth with rough hunger, as his hands roamed the silky hills and valleys of her body, rousing her again until her nails were biting into his rigid shoulders and her legs had twined with his. Unable to bear the torment a moment longer, he entered her, just a little, feeling as if he had died as the scalding slickness of her closed over him.

Genevieve's eyes fluttered open and she regarded him with smoky desire. Then she wrapped her arms tightly around him and opened her legs wider, raising her hips, drawing him farther within. Despite his determination to go slowly, Haydon felt the last thread of his control snap. With a groan he drove himself deep inside, sheathing himself in her hot tightness.

Genevieve gasped.

“I'm sorry, Genevieve,” Haydon managed, cursing himself. What the hell was the matter with him? he wondered furiously. He had no more control than a schoolboy. He held himself perfectly still, resolving not to move until she had grown accustomed to the feel of him within her. “I think, if we wait a bit, the pain will pass.”

Genevieve blinked and nodded.

“I also think you should breathe,” Haydon added after a moment.

Slowly, she exhaled the breath she had been holding.

“Better?”

Actually, it was much better, Genevieve realized, especially when she allowed her body to relax. Longing to be back to where there were no words, she threaded her fingers into his hair and pulled him down so she could kiss him.

Haydon moaned as his tongue tangled with hers. He began to flex slowly within her, swearing to himself that he would be gentle, that he would give her time to be roused once more. But she seemed to be roused already, for she was kissing him deeply as her hands swept across the rigid curves of his shoulders and back and buttocks, pulling him into her as she thrust her body against his, opening herself to him and closing herself around him until there was nothing but wetness and heat and the silver sheen that was shimmering on their skin. Again and again he drove into her, overwhelmed by the silky river of her red-blonde hair, the summery hot scent of her skin mingling with the fragrance of her passion, the soft, lean beauty of her elegantly sculpted breasts and hips and legs.

She was everything he had ever wanted, he realized with piercing clarity. And the realization was agony, because he knew she was not his and never would be. He had killed a man and lost his identity, and he could not stay without endangering her and the children to whom she had devoted herself.

Yet if he ever succeeded in reclaiming his life as the Marquess of Redmond he was certain she would not want him, for that selfish, careless bastard was not worthy of a woman like her. The realization wounded and enraged him, for if he had but known that she existed he might have lived his life differently, might have refrained from drinking and gambling and heedlessly spreading his seed, creating children to whom he had no right and who he could not protect.

He wanted to join Genevieve to him, wanted to drive himself inside her and kiss her and hold her and cover her until neither knew where one ended and the other began, wanted to meld their flesh and their breath and their blood so that nothing could ever come between them. But there was just this moment that would quickly be over, and the realization filled him with despair.

He tried to slow himself, tried to make this brief, stolen interlude between them last longer, but she was writhing and stretching beneath him, opening herself to every aching thrust with hot little pants of breath and her nails clawing desperately at his back, meeting his penetrations with gasps of pleasure as she gripped him in her tightness, until finally he couldn't bear it a moment longer. He shoved himself deep inside her, burying himself within the magnificently taut clench of her beautiful body. And then he groaned and poured his essence into her, feeling as if he were dying, and not giving a damn, as long as he could stay joined to her, with her heart pounding rapidly against his chest and the whisper of her breath gusting soft and sweet against his skin.

They lay joined together a long moment, each afraid to move for fear of severing the fragile bonds between them. But as his flesh cooled, his reason returned. What had he been thinking? Haydon wondered, his mind suddenly reeling with self-loathing. It was not enough that he had selfishly created one unwanted child—because of his lack of control, he may well have started another. He had not lived the life of a monk since his torrid affair with Cassandra, but after Emmaline's death he had vowed never to create a life so casually again. Yet instead of withdrawing before his own climax, as had been his rule these past two years, he had buried himself within her.

How could he have been so careless?

He rolled off her and rose from the bed. He picked up his fallen plaid and wrapped it around his waist, then went to the window and stared grimly out at the infinite blackness of the night, cursing his own stupidity.

“Jesus, Genevieve,” he said, his voice low and harsh, “I'm sorry.”

Shame washed over her. Genevieve grasped the edge of the blanket and wrapped it around herself, shielding her body from Haydon's perusal as she gathered up her nightgown and shawl. She turned away and dressed beneath the tent of her blanket. Tonight she had shown herself for what she really was, she realized, trembling with humiliation—a wanton slut who would writhe on a bed beneath a man's touch. She had kissed Haydon and held him and opened herself to him, drawing him into her body with no thought to the consequences. He was not her husband, she reminded herself miserably, and he never would be. He was a fugitive from the law, a convicted murderer, and he could not stay there a moment longer than was necessary. Even if he did eventually reclaim his life as the Marquess of Redmond, he would never return to marry a woman like her. No man of decent station or normal sanity would marry an impoverished spinster with five young thieves and one maid's bastard for children.

She wanted to say something, but no words could articulate her emotions. He had apologized, but it seemed grossly hypocritical to accept that apology when it was she, in fact, who had sought him out, venturing to his room in the middle of the night in nothing but a nightrail and shawl. She had wanted to talk to him, to understand what had compelled him to take such enormous risks on Charlotte's behalf. She had also hoped to strip away some of the veils that shrouded the man whom the rest of the world believed to be her husband. But these were not the only reasons she had gone to his room, she realized, nearly sick with shame. The passion that had flared between them several nights earlier in the drawing room had awakened powerful feelings in her that she hadn't known she possessed. Despite her efforts to lock them into a dark corner of her mind, she had longed to experience those feelings again. On some level that was incomprehensible to her, she had wanted Haydon to touch her, had been desperate to know what it was to have him kiss and caress and worship her body, and to fill her to the core with his heat and strength and passion.

She flew across the room and jerked open the door, desperate to be away from him. The corridor was cold and black as she stepped into it, leaving all the heat and light that had flamed with such joyful brilliance but a moment earlier fading in the chamber behind her.

 

…A
FTER THAT HE LEFT THE JAIL WITH THE GIRL AND
returned to Mrs. Blake's house at approximately four o'clock.”

Mr. Timmons scratched a rather alarming pimple on his nose as he closed his notebook, indicating his report was finished. “I remained on the street until eleven o'clock this evening—just before I came here. Mr. Blake did not leave, nor did any of the other inhabitants of the household.”

Vincent Ramsay, the earl of Bothwell, drummed his manicured fingers thoughtfully upon the scratched surface of the small table in his room. Then he rose, withdrew an envelope from an inner pocket in his coat, and slid it across the table. “Thank you, Mr. Timmons. I shall be in touch if I find I have further need of your services.”

Mr. Timmons's mouth gaped open as he glanced at the thick pad of notes bulging within the envelope. “Thank you, Mr. Wright, sir,” he gushed, overwhelmed by the generosity of his mysterious employer. “I'm happy to be of service to you. If there is anything else I can do—perhaps I should watch Mr. Blake again tomorrow….”

Vincent opened the door to his hotel room, anxious to have the wheedling little man gone from his sight. He despised men who made their living by prying into the lives of others, and disliked Mr. Timmons in particular because his very presence was an intrusion into Vincent's own life. He had paid him well to ensure his discretion, but the earl was not foolish enough to believe that his confidentiality was absolutely assured.

“That will be all for the moment.” Best to let the little toad think there might be more work coming his way. That way he would be more inclined to keep his tongue still. “Good night.” He shut the door abruptly, leaving Mr. Timmons standing in the hallway with the envelope clutched in his hand.

Vincent poured himself a glass of insipid sherry, took a sip and cringed. He was not accustomed to drinking such cheap vintages, but he had made every effort since his arrival in Inveraray to do nothing to draw undue attention to himself, and that included not indulging in his fondness for discriminating wine. Hence he had registered in this decrepit little hotel as Mr. Albert Wright, a businessman from Glasgow who was on his way north to investigate the production of charcoal in the hills north of Taynuilt. He dressed modestly and kept to himself, giving no one any reason to notice him except when they served him his stringy, grease-laden meals, either in his room or in the dreary restaurant below—with its copiously stained rug and hopelessly tarnished flatware—that he felt obliged to patronize on occasion. He presented himself as a quiet, polite, wholly uninteresting man, who he hoped was forgotten the moment he was out of sight. He had no wish to make an impression of any type on anyone during his stay here.

Except, of course, for the missing Marquess of Redmond.

When he first received word that Haydon had actually managed to fend off the attackers he had hired to kill him, Vincent had been infuriated. Ultimately he consoled himself with the view that hanging was just as fitting an end for the rutting bastard. The fact that Haydon was paraded before a court like a common criminal and found guilty of murder seemed ironically appropriate. There had been the added pleasure of imagining him languishing for weeks in a fetid, vermin-infested cell, surrounded by the scum of humanity, undoubtedly beaten and abused, all the while desperately protesting his innocence to no avail. Vincent had dallied with the idea of traveling to Inveraray to attend the hanging, but ultimately decided that the whole miserable business was best left to play out in his absence. He had wanted Haydon dead, but he had not felt any compelling need to witness it himself. All he had desired was some small measure of retribution for the unspeakable humiliation and suffering the marquess had so casually inflicted upon his own life. It had cost a substantial sum and had taken some discreet arranging, but ultimately Vincent had been certain that both the funds involved and his time were well spent.

What he had not anticipated was that Haydon would escape his death a second time.

The idea that his deceased wife's lover had managed to elude the sharp talons of justice and was roaming about, hunted but free, grated mercilessly upon him. After waiting impatiently to see if he would be recaptured, Vincent ultimately realized he had no choice but to take the matter into his own hands. He had traveled to Inveraray and hired Mr. Timmons, an experienced investigator whose discretion, like almost everything else, could be reasonably assured for a price—at least for a time. Mr. Timmons was easily able to secure information on Haydon's trial and his sojourn in the jail. What struck Vincent as most interesting was the fact that a pretty, well-meaning spinster had been the last person to visit the marquess in his cell before he escaped. According to the warder, who had been eager to talk to Mr. Timmons when he realized the investigator was willing to buy him unlimited pints of ale, his lordship had looked little better than a filthy, broken beggar on the night of his escape. Vincent had suspected that may not have mattered to the eminently altruistic Miss MacPhail. The Marquess of Redmond had always had a talent for enchanting and seducing women, regardless of the circumstances. That was what had enabled him to crawl between the legs of his lovely Cassandra.

He took another bitter swallow of sherry.

The humiliation of his wife's affairs still had the power to enrage him. He reminded himself that she had been a selfish, spoiled bitch, and Vincent had been glad to be rid of her when she died some two years earlier, after some ignominious doctor had tried to scrape the progeny of her latest lover from her womb. The shambles of their marriage had ceased to matter after Emmaline was born eight years prior. With her wonderful, miraculous arrival, everything else in his life had suddenly diminished in importance.